


Preferred Black and Bitter

by BlackSamuraiLiterature



Category: Shin Megami Tensei: Digital Devil Saga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 23:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4542171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackSamuraiLiterature/pseuds/BlackSamuraiLiterature
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death causes different reactions amongst men. Some react with anger, others react with despair, and even the strongest are left mourning with a grief-stricken heart. Death also diminishes hope amongst men. Some then fall down deeper or rise stronger, and then some live long enough to endure the agony of both. It is to the Lokapala’s ill favor to suffer through the latter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Preferred Black and Bitter

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Commentary: I just can’t get these two dorks out of my head lately. I was recently doing a facial studying for Roland because I am working on a portrait of him, so I ended picking up on a lot of details I never noticed before which spewed many headcanons. I just decided to get some of my musings out with a short instead of word vomit. Granted, the headcanon focused here is totally bias from my personal observation of what brings about facial changes. So most likely his face just looks like it does because that’s his bone structure, but breaking the cutie is far more entertaining as an author—not that he already wasn’t broken down.
> 
> PS. Sorry, not sorry, the story finishes off on like a bunch of low-key sexual sounding innuendos by accident.

Adil was not a man gifted with the knack for cooking. Whatever was on the plate he was carrying only vaguely resembled something edible, let alone food, but the darkness of his surroundings caused most of the contours inside the hallway to blur in ambiguity anyhow. The man wistfully thought that perhaps that illusion would be in favor for the meal to actually be eaten. It was a farfetched hope that most likely would not come true, regardless of how well prepared the fare was. Lately, Adil always returned with the same, untouched plate he would leave on the table or desk in delusion that maybe the food would get eaten.

As he walked down the corridor, with only the cadence of his footsteps as stimulus, Adil wondered why he even went through the trouble of brining meals for the man, much less take the time to prepare them himself. The outcome was the same time and time again. Perhaps he continued because it was his subtle signal to the other that he was still present—dependable, steadfast, and willing. He knew well that people needed help and assistance to survive. The years he spent as a member of the Lokapala shown him such; even more so that leaders need the supporting hand most of all.

A heavy, revolted sigh was released as he stood in front of the door in effort to compose himself. Adil was a man easily prone to disgust, and it was a pitfall the he was not also agile in recovering from it. Regardless, he decided it best to move forward, despite his calming methods always being futile, and opened the door.

At first he stood there in the threshold for an abnormally long duration, unafraid of an awkwardness that could come from the overstaying, for the man knew his presence would not be felt there. The idling was enough for Adil to awaken completely and wholly to the poisonous stagnation of the reality before him. Lokapala’s new leader, Roland, sat alone on the chair overseeing the length of the coffee table. The man’s elbows rested with weight on top of his thighs, causing him to hunch over. An empty lowball tumbler hovered over the plateau by mere fingertips, with an empty bottle, discarded on the tabletop, to match. Even his eyes, too, were empty.

 _Give it more time. The wound’s still green_ , Adil thought as he walked over to the other side of the room.

It disappointed Adil to witness how emaciated his leader was becoming, the finer details apparent through a closer viewpoint. Roland’s body shook as if it was shivering from the cold, yet slight enough where it could go effortlessly unobserved. His face was becoming gaunt and sunken, darkening around its sockets, and his lips were tarnished with blotches of smudged maroon and crimson. Noticing the blood caused Adil to reassess the debate on why he still catered Roland with meals. He began to question if the man’s body would even be accepting of the food if he decided to eat it, or if it would just be violently rejected like all the alcohol.

Hoping for the best, the bottle and tumbler were moved aside and replaced with the offhand cooking. Surprisingly, Roland graced the plate with a blank gaze, but nothing else came from it but silence. The man’s speechlessness came and went fickly, so it was uncertain if he would ever reply verbally. This decay was what replaced the man he had honored. Such ennui repulsed Adil to the point of irritation and anger, so when the food once again went untouched for longer than needed, the anger broke free.

“For God’s sake, Roland, eat something for once!” Adil exclaimed with the same temper as a parent scorning their child.

Adil bit his tongue—figuratively and literally—and thought in silent rage: _You’re all the Lokapala has left now that Greg’s gone, Roland! You are our leader. For fuck’s sake, can’t you see what you’re doing? You’re killing yourself! Is that what you want? We just lost Lokapala’s heart, and, God damn it, we can’t loose its head—not for a second time._

The shock of realization struck like taking a bullet to the shoulder or a knife to the gut, because that thought was exactly what he wanted. Roland wanted to waste away; he wanted to die. Roland’s despair was simply more reclusive and defensive, but nonetheless cataclysmic. Nihility, apathy, and self-destruction were merely how his mind rendered the hatred, instead of frustration like Adil or grief like others.

He was the closest to Greg after all. He was like a second father to Greg’s son, Fred, as well—but now he is less of a fitting replacement.  He took all the pain and suffering that manifested from his friend’s death as his liability alone, one he could never account for. This clarification Adil underwent sobered him, causing a soft, “Please,” to be added at the end of his request.

There still was no reply, but a glass-like sheen engendered from the emptiness within Roland’s grey eyes. Responding, Adil left quietly. Minutes passed by before the man returned carrying a mug. As he placed it down next to the unaltered plate, he asked: “Will you at least drink something?”—a dense pause—“other than alcohol.”

The contents of the mug were a pale umber and warm enough to expend jovial wisps of steam that carried a nostalgic scent. To much surprise, Roland lethargically gripped the handle of the mug and cupped it with both hands where the tumbler previously was situated.

He took a sip.

“It’s a little sweet and… thick,” Roland said.

“Well, I never did know how you took it,” the other man replied.

Moments such as this one caused Adil’s inside to radiate with glee, contradictory to his outwardly neutral expression. Roland’s reactions meant progress, and it gave Adil hope. The Lokapala’s new leader was healing, and the man he devoted his loyalty to would hopefully return one day—a man of strength, admirability, and principle. It might take years, but there was not much of a choice other than to wait those years.


End file.
